and the Rockets' Red Glare
by shywr1ter
Summary: July, 2012. Picking up the pieces. Post-episode 9x24 team fic.
1. Chapter 1

_**DISCLAIMER: NCIS not mine, nothing made by borrowing its characters. Given the end of S9, they can't say they're surprised we'd need them to fix what they left hanging.**_

_**A/N: Tag to 9x24 "til Death Do Us Part." I'm hoping that this one's a bit different than most posted so far. Explanatory A/N at end. **_

* * *

**_...and the Rockets' Red Glare..._**

July, 2012

"Gibbs?"

Her voice was quiet. Uncertain. Abby was quieter, more tentative these days than she'd been before. All of them were, each in their own way.

Dearing's bomb had ripped away far more than the front of their building, a mere couple months earlier. It had ripped away their foundations, their easy confidence, their health and strength. It had ripped away friends, family ... a team. To be sure, the healing that had begun after the dust had settled was still underway, would be for a long time ahead. But nothing would ever be the same again.

"Yeah, Abs?"

"Are you...?" She stopped, started again. "Do you have any plans for the Fourth of July?"

His eyebrows raised, not expecting her question, but he answered smoothly. "No." He wondered if he should ask. "You?"

"No..." She drew out her answer, as if it wasn't that simple. "Not yet." She remained silent for long enough that Gibbs started to turn away when she tried, "I think we should."

He turned back to her, with a half shrug. "Should ...?"

"Have _plans_. All of us. _All_ of us, Gibbs ... it's been awful, Gibbs, and we need to have a _day_. Like family would. We're family, and we need to just ... have a day. Together. _All_ of us, in one place, at the same time. We haven't had that yet, not since... everything happened. We need to be together. Like a family reunion, maybe."

Gibbs eyes softened sadly as he considered her, her spirit still broken no matter how she tried to be strong. "Abby ..."

"A ... a cookout, maybe," she insisted. "Something a family would do on the Fourth of July." She seemed to rally to the thought and fix on it, as if once voiced, the idea of a family gathering had taken hold with her. And with it, even rattled and subdued by events more cataclysmic and devastating than anyone should have to face, Abby was still, at her core, unbending once a goal was fixed in her heart.

He didn't want to be the one to break it all over again. Still, what she was asking... "Abs ..." he tried. "That may not be possible. It's..." Gibbs hesitated when the large green eyes looked back to his, the hope that had arisen there now on the verge of crashing away again. He backpedaled. "It may not be possible to ... to do everything in time to have everyone there." He saw understanding in the eyes that didn't leave his, and added, "wouldn't it be harder to have one and know that not everyone could come?"

"No." She suddenly shut her eyes tight and shook her head forcefully. "It's _possible_. There's time. We could do this, Gibbs; we can manage it."

His first attempt to discourage her hadn't worked. "You don't know about anyone else's plans," he tried another tack.

"It's _family_, Gibbs," she breathed, clearly unmovable on the subject now, clearly needing this herself to move forward. "They'll be here. Especially if they know you'll be there too, they'll come. _Please_."

He shrugged, unable to think of anything at the moment to turn her away from her mission and hoping that her intensity might lessen if he just went along for now. "Okay, Abby, if it's what you want."

He saw a smile of hope and cheer from her that he hadn't seen in weeks, and his heart sank at the thought of losing it again if this didn't work out as she planned. Ready to leave her with her plans, he turned his attention back to his work when she spoke again.

"We need ..." She stopped again and when his eyes rose to meet hers, she smiled, disarmingly, then started again. "We need a place to have it, Gibbs. If it's a cookout, or a picnic, we need a place, somewhere outdoors but indoors nearby too."

He tried not to let her see the frown that rose unwittingly as he considered even the most immediate of logistics needed now for their broken 'family' to attend. She was waiting, clearly expecting him to make helpful suggestions. He shrugged again. "A park? Some place with a shelter and grill facilities?"

"This is _family_, Gibbs – just our small family. A park is too ... unfamily." At his raised eyebrows, she elaborated, "you know! It's ... generic. It's _everyone's._ It's not personal. It's not _home._"

Abby clearly had something in mind and Gibbs found himself wishing she'd just be direct about it. Over a subtly nagging headache, he tried to temper his sigh. "You have something specific in mind?"

She nodded. "A big, family back yard. That would be perfect. It's cozy, and homey, and personal, and safe."

_Safe._ His heart ached again, just a little. 'Safe' was such a luxury these days, and so needed by them all...

"...but a yard needs a house, Gibbs," she was saying, the speed of her words picking up so that it almost seemed like it was old Abby in front of him, pitching her idea to him. "And only one of us has a _house_..."

_Ah._

"...and where I come from, the person who has the house, well ... it's almost an obligation."

He looked back into her eyes and saw her waiting anxiously for his response.

She wanted to have her 'family' cookout, the one that was probably impossible and would break her heart all over again, at _his_ house. In _his_ 'big, family back yard.'

The thought made him immediately balk. It was one thing to leave his door open all these years, open to his team and to anyone who wanted to end his life, or to have the team assemble in his basement as a substitute squad room when ordered off a case, or to cook steaks for DiNozzo in his fireplace after his SFA had another rough time. When it was work ... or when it was just one of them at a time, as if unplanned, as if they just appeared ... that was okay. He could handle that much intrusion on Shannon and Kelly and the ghosts who still lived with him there. And it was enough, wasn't it? More than most bosses would do?

But ... all of them, organized, coming over as if they really were a family? A cookout, for God's sake? A party? One that would likely do more harm than good and simply remind them all how much they'd lost?

"Abby..."

"_Please_, Gibbs?" she urged. "It's either there or the convent, and although Sister Rosita is all for it and even volunteered to help cook, we couldn't have it there and not invite the sisters, and while most of the time I would say excellent because they're lots of fun really, and are sweet and would enjoy it too, this is _family_, Gibbs. _Our_ family. And it's important and we need to just be_ us_..."

As Abby's intensity grew to have this happen, Gibbs' worry that it would all just hurt her more in the end made his gut churn even more at her request. "Abs, what if it doesn't all work out – did you think about that?"

"It will..."

"_Abby_ –" His tone was harsher than he'd used with her in many long weeks. She flinched at the sound and looked back in his eyes, the need and the trust there again touching him. _For her own good,_ he reminded himself. "You can't undo everything that's happened with a cookout," he said softly.

She never broke her gaze, but to Gibbs' surprise, above the ever so slightly quivering lip he saw glints of the steel he knew she'd had in her, once upon a time, rise back in her eyes. With a swallow, and a nod, she answered in a tone more like the old Abby than he'd heard since the blast. "Maybe not," she agreed. "But I can try..."

She didn't back down, didn't drop her gaze or her request of him. Softening his gaze, and hoping like hell she could pull it off, Gibbs finally nodded. "Okay," he relented. "Just tell me what you want me to do."

* * *

**A/N: this was a response to a 2 part challenge in my own little head: 1) after reading many of the post-finale fic, all of which pick up in the moments after the explosion, I wanted to try something a bit further down the road. One more chapter is planned. 2) canon has shown us times when one character or another drops in on Gibbs at his home, but lots of fanfic have him literally throwing parties. I was in the mood to bridge the gap from no-party canon to party-central fic, and this appeared. "]  
**

**I'd like this to be an interactive fic by leaving enough unspoken that the reader can fill in the details in keeping with their own theories and hopes for the characters and how they fare during & after the explosion. Am hoping that it doesn't end in just a vague mash of "what the hell...?" We'll see! Hope to update this weekend or next... :}**


	2. Chapter 2

_**DISCLAIMER: NCIS not mine. See earlier disclaimer.**_

_**A/N: this chapter came out a bit different than intended – but Gibbs got ahold of it and steered it his way. He figured you might like to know a bit more about what's happened between May and now.**_

_**Here's hoping he lets me – and the other characters – have the next chapter. 'Til then, sincere thanks to everyone for your comments, reviews, favorites and alerts. Since this chapter is a bit different, would love to know your thoughts – **_

* * *

_********__...and the Rockets' Red Glare..._

The Fourth of July dawned early for Gibbs, as did most mornings, but this time the day ahead held so many competing concerns, and awoke so many dusty memories, he'd been restless through the night.

More than anything, he worried for Abby's insistent hope for this day, the one that had brought a spark of life back to her that he hadn't seen since the bombing, that the reunion would bring happiness and at least a little healing for them all. He hated to think of her being crushed if things didn't go as well as she imagined.

He had his own memories to face, too, from when cookouts were the norm at this house, when his 4th of July backyard held a big, rubbery above-ground pool, with all the accompanying splashes and squeals of delight from neighborhood kids, right there alongside his own, beautiful child. He wondered if the living, breathing visitors he'd have later that day could drown out all the ghosts who would, undoubtedly, be around as well.

But wouldn't they all be struck by the countless the reminders this unusual gathering brought? Just the fact of the cookout, at his home, underscored how different things were now. With every wound and scar, wouldn't each be another painful sign that they had been attacked, struck down, that the team – _his_ team, his _people_ – had been shattered, with no promises for the future? His team – his _kids,_ Ducky – had always been welcome in his home when they needed him, but on _his_ terms, one on one, when they came to him for his guidance, his assurances. Never for a "family cookout."

And at that very moment, Gibbs understood that, just maybe, _that_ was exactly what his kids needed from him right now.

* * *

He rose, painfully, pausing to look out the window and to flip on the radio, waiting for an update on the weather. The dawn was hazy but clearer than had been expected, still a hot one ahead, but maybe not so muggy. Maybe Abby's enthusiasm had won over the weather, too.

_After convincing him they needed to have a "family" gathering, and at his home, she had gone on her way. But a half hour later – maybe less – his phone rang. It was Abby. "Gibbs..." she began, her voice full of emotion, tears clearly on the brink. If he'd thought her excitement would be dashed so soon he would worked a lot harder to talk her out of her plans._

"_Abby, what..."_

"_I stopped by your house – I realized I should take a look at the yard, you know, to get an idea of size and what we'd need and, oh, Gibbs.." her voice warbled a bit again, emotionally, and he felt a wave of relief when he sensed that she hadn't been shot down after all. "On the deck. There's a __**ramp**__ there. You put a __**ramp**__ in..."_

"_Not me. Jack." _

Looking back again, he was almost able to smile at how they must have sounded when the topic first came up, both Gibbses being characteristically stubborn and cantankerous and digging in, even pretty noisy about it, and while he was still in the hospital. By then the nursing staff had suspected that trying to keep their mulish patient from being pissed and surly was more likely to raise his blood pressure than leaving him to vent his anger and frustration was, and generally ignored his rants.

"_Your dad? With his bad hip? How'd he...?" _

Gibbs felt a soft smile twitch at his lips, remembering her surprise. _"That's the first thing I asked him too, when I found it," he'd told her._

"_It's a __**good**__ thing, Gibbs. For you, and for everyone coming over. And now for the cookout, too." She paused, then asked, a bit of her old inquisitiveness peeking out, "did he ever tell you how he managed it, with his hip, if he did it himself?"_

"_No," Gibbs shook his head slowly as he'd remembered his father's gruff concern with new fondness. "We never got back to the conversation."_

"_So ask him when you call him again – for me," she said softly. "It's a good thing, Gibbs."_

It figured that Abby would side with Jackson, even just instinctively. He remembered his first day back home, and his discovering the damned thing three days after that, when he started moving around his home again some. He'd barely managed a grunt of frustration that his father had gone against his wishes – and his expressly stated refusal to agree to it – when his father had interrupted to bark at his son with a gruffness that sounded awfully close to home. _"Leroy, if you'd just stop bein' so angry at the world for bein' on the sidelines, you'd realize that __**some**__ of us just might come and go a little easier with that ramp outside. And don't tell me you don't want to be out there again as soon as you can, or want people comin' and goin,' because with all the comin' and goin' in that hospital I thought they'd have to put a turnstile in the hallway for sure."_

* * *

It was still several hours before they would all be there, but while his coffee was brewing, Gibbs went outside to wipe down the shiny new smoker he'd assembled on the deck the day before, and drain the water from the bowl of large wood chunks he'd soaked all night. With more difficulty than he would ever admit to anyone, just the day before, Gibbs had managed to haul out the smoker Stephanie bought him for their anniversary, still in the box, just to see if the damn thing actually worked. To his satisfaction he found that the electric coil worked just fine, and that the smoker itself was actually a fine piece of equipment. After completing the minor bit of assembly, he made a rather self-conscious call to the retiree next door, who just happened to be the neighborhood grill king. With an enthusiasm that almost made Gibbs feel guilty, the man came over to give him a lesson on "Smoking 101." The man's wife soon got into the act, delighted to have some way to mother the wounded agent next door and honor his service, and volunteered to add to her day's shopping list everything Gibbs would need to serve up smoked ribs and chicken at his "party." Only another few hours after that, the Baxters were back in his kitchen as they coached and coaxed Gibbs through all the preparations, assuring him that by the time they were done, all he'd need to do was load in the meat and "plug 'er in..."

Looking across his freshly mowed yard, Gibbs thought about everything Abby had accomplished in the few days she had to plan her party. She'd worked to exhaustion to sort out the smallest of details. She had found some kids to mow Gibbs' lawn and telephoned him several more times with plans for food, noting as she did the current dietary restrictions for each member of the team, for times to start and times to eat, for set up and clean up and far more arrangements for a simple afternoon gathering than he'd used on most of the missions he'd ever undertaken. As she loaded her new IPod and tested its speakers, she'd worried about having enough music to play through the evening that everyone would like, so that if there were fireworks sounding in the area, they might be less abrupt and disruptive to the traumatized bunch, and sound less like the burst of a C4 explosion...

But the cookout had given her purpose and hope and focus, something she could finally do to help them all heal. And, after all – what used to be simple for them wasn't so simple anymore.

"_I figure Jimmy will want to bring Breena, and he should – it's only fair," she had said two days before. "Maybe she's not __**family**__ family but she's an in-law now, and she gave up so much so that Jimmy could be with us right after. And she's family like your dad would be, if he were still down here."_

_Gibbs had nodded his agreement into the phone. Jimmy's new bride had left a church full of people and a very pricey reception high and dry, without either bride and groom, to send Jimmy packing back to the Yard to help with the casualties. Even more, she'd been at Ducky's side the whole time she would have otherwise been on her honeymoon. Gibbs had actually chuckled, a rusty, unused sound, to grunt, "better than any in-law I've ever known." He was warmed by the sound of Abby's quiet laugh in response. "Of course, Abs," he agreed. "Breena's family if anyone is."_

"_And Stan?"_

_She didn't have to say more. "Absolutely," Gibbs' response was immediate. "He's a part of us again. Probably will be for a while yet." _

Stan Burley had been back in the District when it happened, at their Pentagon office, and although it was difficult to accept why he had been ordered to remain there on the Yard, and why he would be needed there in the District for some time to come instead of back at his post overseas, they'd all been grateful for his tireless service. Burley had worked long hours with little sleep, giving his all in the hunt to capture Dearing, to be there for his former Boss and the team, to be there for NCIS, when all hands were needed more than at any time in its history. With the team down, there was no one at NCIS Gibbs would have wanted to handle things on the ground more than he did Stan. Burley's frequent visits to Bethesda, to his people, to update them from the inside, was a lifeline to them all. Stan was a part of his team again, maybe even more than ever.

* * *

After her last call, Gibbs had not heard from Abby for almost 24 hours, not until her call happened to catch him eye to eye with an uncrated smoker, contemplating his next move.

"_Gibbs?" Her voice was subdued again, quiet, but it vibrated with expectation. "I think we're set. __**All**__ of us. I think we'll have everyone there."_

_He wanted to believe that whatever promises made to her would be kept, but from all he'd been told, it seemed so unlikely. He waited for more._

"_And well, maybe not for the whole time, but any time we can all be together will be so perfect. It's been too long. We all __**need**__ each other – for most of us, we're all we have."_

_He'd heard the emotional quaver in her voice and knew she was right, that each of them had come to rely on the others as the family they didn't have. He just hoped that it all worked out as Abby imagined it would. "What's the plan, Abs?"_

"_Gibbs, Jimmy's been great! He met with the doctors and they worked everything out, and it's all set. The final hang up they had was transporting, because the doctors wanted an ambulance, but once they knew Jimmy had the truck it was all approved." _

"_Jimmy has a truck?"_

"_Well, yeah. Or, not Jimmy, but the ME truck, with even more room than an ambulance would have, so there's room for everyone __**and**__ all the equipment needed. I mean, after everything Jimmy arranged, it didn't seem right to have some stranger's ambulance involved anyway, and once Vance heard about all the plans __**of course**__ he approved Jimmy's borrowing it for..."_

"_How did Vance hear 'all about the plans?'"_

"_Oh. I called him." The old Abby surfaced again, sounding as if he should have assumed she'd get the Director involved. "He thought it was a great idea, and said unless an emergency pops up and it's needed, the truck is ours. Of course, I kinda had to invite him too then, since I called him, and since I invited him I had to invite Mrs. Vance, too. I don't know that they'll come, or for long, but they went through an awful lot, too..."_

It was funny how a terrorist and massive destruction could bury a lot of old, insignificant squabbles.

"_They're family too, Abs," he'd assured her, "if not before all this, then definitely after."_

* * *

Gibbs shook away the memories suddenly and gulped down his second cup of coffee, irritated with himself. Ever since the bomb, whether it was because he was sidelined and not doing his job, or because _hadn't_ done his job and his team was scattered and broken, his gut had been tentative, questioning and replaying all kinds of things in his head instead of driving his decisions and letting things go. _You need time_, everyone said, _they need time, we need time..._

He hoped Abby was right and that her cookout would help them all. Especially for Ziva and DiNozzo, who for such different and such similar reasons needed others around them who loved them and understood them, he knew that all of them being together again would mean something...

Gibbs' thoughts of the two raised another pang of concern. He hadn't seen any of his agents right after the blast; he and Abby had been extricated through the front, the lab effectively shielding them from the much of the dangers threatening the rest of the building while creating some problems of its own. But it wasn't long before he'd been made aware of the damage to the building – and all the attendant dangers, fire, smoke, chemicals, debris, and the general weakening from the concussive blast – and to his agents, all of whom had still been in the building when the bomb blew, doing what they knew to do to save others.

_They'd all ended up at Bethesda, they and so many others. Gibbs fought to see each one as often as he could while he was inpatient, fought for as much information as he could get from Vance and from Breena, Stan and Jimmy. He spent more time on the telephone checking in with all of them when he'd been sent home. Slowly, one by one, his people and others he knew had been released, to recuperate, to seek further treatment, to heal further ... to receive further care._

_All but two of his had gone home. And one remaining, to his surprise, did so voluntarily._

_Historically, none of his agents was a model patient, and Gibbs had never known any of them to abide willingly by doctor's orders, even Ducky's. They denied and avoided and managed to get away with minimal hospital treatment coupled with concerned oversight by their medical examiner. So when Gibbs heard that one of his team was declining release, he got worried._

_And then he got even prouder._

_Gibbs had made the phone call as soon as he'd heard, concerned that there was more, some fear or unspoken concern making his agent __**want**__ to stay. Frustrated that it was only over the phone, Gibbs was in too much of a hurry to interrogate the source to get out there in person. "I have to be out here every day anyway, for a while," Gibbs heard. "And with all the appointments, in a few different departments, and the transportation they were going to send to get me back and forth, they agreed that it's just as easy if I stay."_

_Gibbs waited, silently, knowing there was more. He wasn't disappointed._

"_He won't have to be alone out here this way. I get done with whatever torture they have planned for me, then I can go keep him company. Kind of a visitor in residence." A pause. "I don't think he'll notice the difference if no one says anything. You won't tell him, will you, Boss?" _

Gibbs mused at the memory as he opened the smoker and found, as promised, the ribs and chicken smoked to glorious perfection, having slow-smoked overnight. It was always the case that tragedy brought out the best in good people. But damn it, his people had all given plenty already, before this. He'd give anything to not have had to see them step up because of one, this native terrorist...

_The smoker had begun to fill with the sweet smell of hickory smoke, and with a sudden, unbidden jolt Gibbs had a flash of memory that took his breath away, remembering a very different sort of smoke that had threatened them all. Gibbs growled a curse at himself for his failure to think about the powerful trigger the smoke would be, relieved to know that both the ribs and chicken should be done early the next morning, long before everyone arrived._

He hoped the taste wouldn't be as likely as the smoke to trigger the memories of fire and charred bodies that the clouds of smoke did. He sighed, looking again around the empty yard. _How long would that day haunt them all? How many simple things, every day things, would remind them of the day the madman had won?_

Abby believed they could make things better with something as simple as this party, and he realized that he'd been waiting for her to be proven wrong. Right there, he'd given Dearing another victory.

_Well, not today, and not him_. Not at his home, with his people. He'd thought before maybe his kids needed him to be there for them, and to let Abby bring them all together. He knew now that just that wasn't enough, he needed to help them all put the explosion, and all the aftereffects, as far behind them as they could. He would enjoy the simple pleasure of having everyone together again, at least for a short time, and do what he could to be sure others did, too.

This year, "Independence Day" would have a whole new meaning for his people – his team. It wouldn't be quick or easy, but it would start with him, with their day.

_Their_ Independence Day.


	3. Chapter 3

_**DISCLAIMER: NCIS not mine. See earlier disclaimer.**_

_**A/N: well, this story still is heading in its own direction, away from what I first thought might happen, and this time it's Tony who took over. Big surprise that DiNozzo has something to say about things.**_

_**Once again, many thanks for your comments and other button-pushing for this one. Any and all comments appreciated!**_

* * *

_****__********__...and the Rockets' Red Glare..._

In hindsight, Gibbs realized he should have known that Tony would be there before anyone else, even before Abby appeared. And _that_ was because he should have known, even more readily, that his SFA would step in for him when he faltered, no matter his own condition, no matter the circumstances. The fact that it took a 4th of July gathering and a few choice words from his M.E. to let Gibbs see the light spoke volumes about just how much he'd let go since he'd been sent home to recuperate.

Well, even before they arrived he'd promised himself that he'd step up for them, and DiNozzo's appearance just underscored how badly he needed to do just that – and how late he was getting around to it.

* * *

It had still been a good forty five minutes before the party was to start when Tony arrived, fifteen before even Abby was due. Gibbs had just lit the coals, so that the scents of lighter fluid and charcoal and maybe even the cooking steaks and burgers wouldn't be so overwhelming when people arrived, and as he sat outside, in the back, he heard a car door rather than his front door signaling someone's arrival. When the car's engine never cut off, but just pulled away, Gibbs didn't give it much thought, figuring one of his neighbors had come and gone – not until the door to the deck opened behind him a few moments later.

"Hey Boss," came the familiar voice, softer these days.

Gibbs turned in surprise to see Tony, of all people, this early for anything. "Hungry, DiNozzo?"

"Uh – yeah," his second smiled self-consciously. "I was ready, and I figured I might as well come see if you or Abby could use some help."

"You beat her – she'll be here in about ten minutes."

"Oh. Well..." Tony stood by, almost awkwardly, shoving his hands in his pockets. Gibbs had a sudden memory of a seven year old Kelly told to wait until company came before getting into the food. Tony simply waited, as uncomfortable as he'd been those first times at Gibbs' house, not at all like the SFA who had appeared on his basement steps at all hours, who had crashed on his couch on occasion, who Gibbs thought of as family. Gibbs' gut grumbled a faint, rusty warning at the observation.

"Sit down, DiNozzo – unless you want a drink. Beer and sodas in the cooler." Gibbs tipped his head toward the ice chest waiting at corner of the deck. Following the nod, Tony half smiled and shook his head, still standing. "Thanks, Boss – maybe later."

Tony looked tired. He _sounded_ tired. He was subdued, and for Tony that was rarely a good sign. "So, _sit_, DiNozzo." Gibbs tried to remember when he'd last spoken to his SFA – his _former_ SFA, he had to remind himself – and felt a ripple of guilt that it had probably been a week. Maybe even closer to two. "How're things goin'?"

"Oh, you know," Tony trailed, offering a smile that didn't convince Gibbs of its sincerity. "Baby steps, but better than the alternative." Gibbs' eyes narrowed. _If __**that's**__ what Tony is offering instead of the whole truth, how bad must it be for him?_ "How about you?" DiNozzo shifted the topic away from himself quickly by noting, with a laugh, "all you need now is one of those chef's aprons that say 'Kiss the Cook' or 'BBQ King.'"

Gibbs' guilt kicked at him again, given that Tony's hospital stay had been made much longer and less pleasant because of what smoke and chemical fumes could do to someone whose lungs were stiffened and scarred from a bout with the plague. Another glance at Tony told him he that DiNozzo didn't seem fazed by it, but Gibbs knew it had to be acknowledged, at least. "I don't know what I was thinkin', Tony, to have this be a cookout." He paused, not looking at the younger man, but continued with his version of an apology, "it didn't hit me until I started the smoker up last night that the smell might have a whole lot of bad associations for everyone."

Tony's jaw worked only slightly before his face suddenly shifted into a softer, relaxed smile – a small one, but genuine this time. "You're a smoker guy now, too? You sure you weren't the one whacked on the head, Boss?" When all he got in response was a grunt, Tony's expression relaxed further, the smile fading and leaving him once again hard to read, unsettled. "It didn't do anything for me, Boss, if that means anything. Too different a smell, I guess. Maybe it won't remind anyone."

Pure DiNozzo, quickly denying any pain then moving attention away from himself, this time with a mention of the others, to assuage Gibbs' misgivings for failing to think things through. Gibbs wondered not only if Tony was being candid with him, but if it had occurred to the younger man that the smoke might not have the same triggers for him because he'd been unconscious most of the time he'd been trapped inside the smoldering building. Gibbs remembered what Ducky once said, long ago, that he thought one of Tony's main coping mechanisms was denial. Gibbs suspected that Tony was dealing with the devastation they'd all suffered by refusing to acknowledge he'd been a victim, too, refusing to give in to his own pain or struggles and resisting the reality of the team's dim future. Not wholly unexpected for DiNozzo, for the big stuff, but this time it had a different quality – protective, focused ... stubborn – _like a team leader, _Gibbs realized. _This must have been how he was while I was in Mexico..._

"You look worn out, Tony." Gibbs met DiNozzo's hazy gaze and wouldn't let it go.

DiNozzo laughed, without humor, and tried to look away. "Hey, at least that's a few steps up from 'crap,' isn't it?"

"Ducky said that you were overdoing it and he had to intercede on your behalf with Brad." Gibbs went on, realizing how much he'd dropped the ball with DiNozzo in this – _again._

Tony snorted and shook his head. "They're both overreacting..."

"I might've believed that if I hadn't seen you." When his comment brought no further word from his normally garrulous SFA, he went on, "out at the Yard every day, Tony? Between your own therapy out at the hospital and checking in with Tim and Ziva, _every day?_ It's too soon for all that, DiNozzo."

"No, Boss, it's _not._" he replied before his exhausted brain could catch up to his mouth. "They need someone – the _team_ needs someone – to hold us together, to get us all through, until you're back and can start slapping heads to get us back in shape..."

Gibbs blinked in disbelief at what he was hearing. "DiNozzo, you know that's not gonna happen," he spat. "Look at me! You think I will ever qualify to go back in the field?"

"_You're_ the only one who thinks that's off the table, Gunny," Tony replied, wearily, but with enough stubbornness to remind Gibbs he was 'always' a Marine. "But since you're the only one who can get you back there, _you_ need to realize you're wrong and get to work. And 'til then," he tried not to sigh, "I can keep an eye on the team for you."

Gibbs had regretted his self-pitying outburst, so soon after he'd promised himself he'd be there for his people, and with Tony's pointed use of his old rank, he gave himself a mental headslap and looked for a more fitting response. "And you have, Tony," he began, "you really _have_ stepped up for me – _again_ – when you shouldn't have had to." He paused, and offered ruefully, "and despite that, just now – it's occurred to me it's time I take some responsibility for my people." He looked at DiNozzo and realized he owed him far more. _"Our_ people," he corrected. "The fact you've been there for them, Tony..." Gibbs trailed off, weighing his thoughts before he finally said, "but there are too many factors I can't fix. I won't qualify for the field again – but if I have to give up the team, at least they'll have you."

His words elicited an involuntary laugh from DiNozzo, one that seemed strangled and pained. "Sorry, Boss. Not likely." At Gibbs' usual, impelling silence, he could only offer, "right now, between the two of us, Ducky's money's on you. He's not even trying to say I'll be back in the field, ever." DiNozzo paused, adding softly, "and given where Tim and Ziva are with things – who knows. It could go either way."

Gibbs felt a chill at his words, thinking back through everything he'd heard from Ducky or Stan or Tony himself, coming up empty. "What are you talking about?" Gibbs demanded. "DiNozzo, what happened to you that I don't know about?"

* * *

She may have been 'Miss Tardy to the Party,' but only by five minutes, and completely intentionally and planned – at least in her own head. Still, Tony was relieved to hear the familiar voice chirp an interruption of his uncomfortable conversation with Gibbs as Abby made her way from the driveway into the backyard toward Jackson's ramp, laden with supplies.

"Gibbs! It looks _great!_" she called, sounding more like the old Abby than she had all this time. Truth was that her nerves were stretched thin with exhaustion and stress and the raw fear that her 'family' wasn't healing and would never truly heal, and that this party would somehow prove that they would never recover. She came late because she knew Tony would be there and wanted to give him just a little more time with Gibbs. Besides, with the last minute change of plans, she'd added one more passenger to ferry.

"Indeed, Jethro," Ducky added merrily, as always, looking as if nothing at all had befallen any of them, and certainly not looking as if he himself had an emergency triple bypass only six weeks earlier. "Why didn't you think of this sooner?"

Gibbs would have rolled his eyes at the Scotsman's ribbing, but he couldn't tear them away from Ziva, standing silently by Ducky, her look one of apprehension as her eyes darted around a bit until they fell on Tony. Seeing DiNozzo, she suddenly quieted and smiled softly, and Gibbs felt an angry pang to see it. _Better than she was, but still so broken?_ The devastation of that terrible May day was profound and unending, in so many unexpected ways, and made him feel helpless to fix everything ...

But Tony stood, obviously glad to escape Gibbs' questioning at least for the moment, and crossed the deck toward the newcomers. "Need a pack mule, Abs?"

"Thanks, Tony. Everything else is in the trunk – it's open."

"Anthony," Ducky spoke up. "Could you use Ziva's help?"

DiNozzo never dropped a beat. "Sure." He moved on toward Abby to drop a quick kiss on her head in greeting, then moved on to stand in front of the other two. "Ducky, you still making your doctors happy?"

"As a matter of fact, yes, Tony, thank you for asking," the good doctor beamed. "I am now officially off all restrictions and can go back to doing whatever I damn well please."

The M.E.'s rare colorful oath made Tony grin, genuinely happy that at least one of them had officially emerged from the wreckage as good as new. "We all knew you'd bounce back faster than anyone." Tony's words were only partly a lie. "Hey, ninja." He'd turned now to Ziva, who smiled at his words. "Help me carry some of Abby's stuff?"

Ducky waited only the moment as he watched her nod once and follow Tony out to the driveway. With Abby having gone on inside and the others at the car, Gibbs took advantage of their solitude to ask, quietly, "_still_, Ducky? When is she going to get better?"

Dr. Mallard cocked his head at Gibbs, frustrated at the man's impatience. "She really has come a long way, Jethro. You know those first weeks she was inconsolable if Tony wasn't within her line of sight;_ she_ had to be sedated the times they took him into surgery..."

Gibbs shook his head. Of all of them to have snapped in the circumstances, the last one he would have thought would succumb was Ziva, no matter how carefully Ducky explained how her many hours in the dark, hot, unmoving cell of an elevator with a mostly unconscious Tony were too close to her earlier captivity for her to withstand.

"You'd said it yourself; since she returned to us after being Saleem's captive she fought the ghosts of Somalia, even long after her return. This time, they were simply too powerful for her to fight, not after so many hours essentially alone with her demons. And as far as her fixation with Anthony, I can only surmise that she must have thought him dead, Jethro, – or worse – as he lay there in the elevator with her. I can't think of any other explanation for why she would become so agitated if he wasn't right there with her, in view."

Gibbs sighed, still troubled. "She's still not talking?"

"Oh, she is," Mallard brightened considerably, "well, at least _some, _but the major breakthrough was from complete silence to speaking at all. It will improve with time."

The door to the deck opened again and Abby joined them outside before Gibbs had a chance to press his friend about Tony, but the gunny was determined to find out that too, as soon as he had another chance alone with either DiNozzo or the doctor. DiNozzo and David were approaching from the other direction, arms laden with bags and boxes.

"Where do you want all this, Abby?" Tony motioned Ziva ahead of him.

"Gibbs, do you care?"

"It's all yours, Abs – make yourself at home."

"Then will you show me where everything is?" she asked winsomely. At her enthusiastic smile, Gibbs felt something relax inside his chest, and his own rare smile was genuine.

"On it, Boss," he said softly, passing her on his way back inside.

With Abby and Gibbs heading inside, and Tony and Ziva trailing behind to drop off their loads from the car, Ducky followed along, naturally, and soon enough the five were working together in a surprisingly relaxed, companionable comfort, with Abby handing out tasks for them all to fill plates and bowls, and unwrap napkins and plates.

As they worked, Gibbs cast a worried eye more than once to Ziva, who would seem well enough to anyone who didn't know her. She complied with every request and task given her, silent and docile, glancing up to Tony every once in a while as if to assure herself he was there.

_But this was Ziva. And for Ziva, it was just all wrong..._

"Hey." Gibbs caught Ziva's eye, and she looked at him ... waiting. Gibbs was suddenly struck with an intense desire to be as able to yammer on nonstop as was Tony, as if chattering to this too-silent woman could nudge her out of her shell. "Want something to drink? There's a cooler outside, with beer and sodas, if you want something."

She simply smiled, blinked vacantly for a moment, then looked on past him, as if he'd never said a word. Gibbs looked away, feeling a surge of helplessness rise in him as he hadn't felt since he lost Kelly and Shannon, knowing that, no matter what was done to Dearing, nothing could restore their lives to what had been.

But suddenly a cautious hand reached out and touched his arm, and Gibbs looked up to Ziva's soft brown eyes, again meeting his, and he noted absently that the trembling he'd felt in her during those first awful weeks was much less noticeable now. Trying to be grateful for even this much contact initiated by her, he offered her a quiet smile, wondering if they were simply getting used to Ziva as she was now, or if she really was improving. At his smile, Ziva attempted to return it, her shaky efforts definitely better than before. But then – purposefully – she lifted her eyes beyond him and nodded out the window, toward his driveway.

Gibbs followed her gaze, eyes suddenly feeling an unexpected prickling when the large, familiar medical examiner's truck pulled in behind Abby's car, a wide, triumphant grin on the face of its bespectacled driver and the stark letters "NCIS" still boldly asserting their presence.

**TBC...**


	4. Chapter 4

_DISCLAIMER: NCIS not mine. See earlier disclaimer._

_A/N: once again, more yaba yaba from the characters than I envisioned! So not the final chapter as I planned, but probably (just?) one more after this. To all of you who have followed, and especially those who have commented, or alerted & favorited, thank you! Love to hear what anyone has to say..._

* * *

_**...and the Rockets' Red Glare...**_

In only moments, the small work crew that had clustered around Gibbs' table turned to head back outside and greet the newcomers, leaving Gibbs momentarily with his once-again silent home. It had taken only Ziva's action, alerting him to the arrival, and his own attention to the scene out in his driveway, to bring the others' attention outside as well.

"They're _here!_" Abby put down the knife she was using to slice fruit into a salad and made a beeline for the deck door. Tony seemed to straighten a bit and, at Ziva's hopeful nod, he grinned for her and tipped his head toward the deck.

"Let's go see Tim."

In only moments, the younger ones were gathering around the back of the van, where Palmer was already opening the back doors as his lovely bride, Breena, greeted the crowd nearing them, both Palmers wearing big, sunny, carefree smiles.

_As far as Gibbs knew, none of his team other than DiNozzo had been back to the Navy Yard in the weeks since their HQ had been attacked. His own focus had been on the destruction and irretrievable loss that had followed for each of them, not what lay ahead for NCIS. _

... Gibbs saw Stan Burley hop out of the back of the van just as the others came around to peer inside, Stan greeting them all like comfortable old friends, with a peck on the cheek for both ladies and a slap on the shoulder and warm handshake for DiNozzo.

_For weeks now, when he wasn't fighting his own injuries, Gibbs found himself looking only to the end of each day – did Tim survive another day? Had Ziva managed to sleep through the night without waking herself screaming? As long as he didn't think about what did – or did not – await them beyond another day, he was able at least to cope, to occasionally pick up the phone to check on one of them, or tolerate a visit from Ducky or a call from Abby._

But the van – Ducky's van – its gleaming blue "NCIS" announcing to the world that Dearing hadn't destroyed them after all, had brought an unexpected lump to his throat ... and, apparently, new energy to the younger ones, as they trooped outside to welcome their teammate. And suddenly his house was again nearly as quiet as it had been all these weeks, the softened but familiar voices of at least part of his team having warmed away some of the ghosts Gibbs hadn't realized were there.

"How good it is to have everyone together again," Ducky sighed at his side, softly, as both men watched the hospital gurney being carefully unloaded onto the driveway.

The youngest member of his team – and the one who suffered most in the blast – was sitting nearly all the way up on the gurney, his eyes shielded from the sun by a pair of aviator sunglasses, and Gibbs felt a surge of hope to see him smiling at the others, clearly as happy as they were to have him there. Tim's survival reminded Gibbs yet again how much they all had benefitted from the proximity of the naval medical center where they had all been treated. Bethesda's staff had more experience with blast injuries than most medical teams did, anywhere, from treating newly wounded on the battlefront as well as designing long-term care back home, and that expertise allowed them all the best outcome they might have in the circumstances. But for McGee, no one doubted it meant literally the difference between life and death, given his cluster of life-threatening primary blast injuries, along with the secondary blast injuries he'd suffered from flying debris and partial cave-in.

Ironically, though, the most painful and long-lasting of his injuries, those keeping him in-patient in the complex' rehab unit and promising even more surgeries ahead, were not those that had most threatened his survival: his serious third degree burns, along with some of lesser severity, were fortuitously limited to less than a quarter of his body along his exposed right side, so that only portions of his arm, his shoulder and neck, and a bit of his leg, were encased in the tight compression bandages he would be wearing for some time to come. From Gibbs' own times in battle, and those troops he knew injured in Desert Storm, the Marine knew there few injuries as painful, or recoveries as extended, as burns like Tim's, and the smile on the young man's face reminded Gibbs of how proud he was of the man.

"He looks good, Ducky," Gibbs offered softly. The elderly doctor understood the question behind it.

"He has been doing well, Jethro. He is rather heavily medicated for this afternoon's festivities, as the transport cannot have been comfortable for him, so he may seem a bit woozy or slow today. But he wanted to come, and with a combination of light sedative and rather strong pain medication, his doctors approved it." Mallard's smile widened as he watched Tony immediately came to Tim's side, squeezing his good shoulder with the confidence of many visits through his Probie's recovery, and leaning in for some private comments than made the younger man's smile grow even wider. The women got in their greetings too, with soft hugs and gentle pecks on his cheek. "And I can't think of a better treatment for him than this, at least for a few hours."

"Prognosis?"

"As it has been. He is out of the woods but has a long road to go. Still, as the burns to his lower extremities and torso were less severe than upper, he is slowly becoming more mobile, and may be able to go home within the month, as long as he is able to get out to the center to continue his therapy. Proper stretching and movement is critical for his healing skin and graphs." The doctor looked at his friend, "you know, you should be asking these questions of Timothy, Jethro – your concern means a lot to him."

Gibbs shrugged. "When I call him, I just try to keep it general. I don't want him to think I'm expecting him to report – or to have to lie about how he's feeling." At the thought, Gibbs was reminded of his conversation with DiNozzo, earlier, and roused a bit to add, "and DiNozzo, Duck? He said he won't be cleared for field status, and that you discussed it with him?" When his answer was simply a slightly guilty look in the older man's eyes, Gibbs felt his frustration rise. "Why didn't you say anything, Ducky? What's happened to him? What else about my team do you know that you haven't told me yet?"

"Jethro, for all the medical proxies you hold, and for all the respect these young men and women have for you," Mallard sighed, "they are all fully capable of making their own medical decisions for now. And that includes what I can and can't share with you." At the surprise he saw on his friend's face, he laughed his own surprise, "don't tell me you hadn't figured out by now that every time you have sent one of them to me to be checked over, following some run in with a suspect or other, part of the exam is my asking them precisely what I am and am not allowed to tell you?"

"Oh, so you've been _lying_ to me all these years about..."

"Not in the least," Ducky scolded. "Your agents rarely asked that I withhold any information from you. On occasion, Anthony asked that the information be soft-pedaled a bit, or that only generalities be offered ... but usually when you were in such a state with a case or your own injuries he did not want you to worry about him."

"Like now?"

Ducky frowned at himself with a small grunt, realizing he had just walked himself back to the topic he'd hoped to avoid. In the next moment he sighed, then offered, "you have been made fully aware of the injuries he sustained, Jethro – but maybe not all of the effects resulting, especially those that have not cleared up yet. Anthony simply wanted to keep some of the information to himself, should we be wrong and he is able to pass the physical in the weeks ahead." Mallard explained, "the Director has indicated that he is keeping all options open, for anyone injured in the blast who wants to come back to work, and will do all he can to accommodate any change in status. As for Anthony, he is talking as if he can live with non-field status, but..." Ducky shook his head, sadly, "it clearly is not something he believes will work out well for him. Much like you, once again, Jethro." The doctor's smile was fleeting. "I believe he deserves all the time he needs to determine whether or not he will recover more fully."

As Ducky spoke, Gibbs had watched not only McGee and the others arriving with him as they greeted his team, but watched Tony closely, assessing his movements, his mood. Once again, DiNozzo struck him as being focused on his people: supporting McGee in a way the younger man knew he'd be there for him, offering Stan, Palmer and Breena a welcome and his obvious thanks for their part in the day, allowing Ziva his presence with unusual calm, gentle contact, small touches and affirming smiles.

"He should have his own team, Duck," Gibbs murmured.

"Sadly, that time may have passed."

"Then he _should_ have had his own team," Gibbs said more forcefully. "I should have pushed him to leave, to take one of those assignments when they came open."

Knowing the answer full well, the Scotsman challenged, "then why didn't you?"

"Didn't want to lose him."

The doctor chuckled softly. "Nor he, you. Or any of them. He_ could_ have left, Jethro, a fact of which you are well aware – as is he."

"Yeah, and now here we are." Gibbs shifted uncomfortably. "He should have _this_ team, Ducky."

"Are you retiring?"

The blunt question was unexpected, and, recalling DiNozzo's earlier words, he turned the question back to his friend. "Tony said you weren't so sure I had to leave the field."

"I think it may be up to you – and the Director, given his intention of looking at every person individually as he rebuilds the Service." Mallard saw that the group had begun making their way toward the backyard and, wanting his old friend to stew a bit with the thought he'd just left him, prodded gently, "maybe we should join the others as well."

Gibbs broke eye contact and nodded curtly, biting down on the frustration he felt for them all – Tony, the others – himself. He knew that Abby wanted the day to be a cheerful one and his black moods wouldn't be welcome. "In a minute – you go ahead."

He was aware that the doctor hesitated – by now Ducky could practically read his mind and knew exactly what was in there – but after a pedantic, _"only_ a minute, Jethro, and I'll hold you to that," the doctor went on outside to leave Gibbs to his own thoughts.

Looking outside once again, Gibbs watched Stan and Tony carefully steering McGee's gurney toward the backyard as Abby went ahead to fidget, for the dozenth time, with the chaise she'd set up for him, tugging at the egg-crate foam and comforter on top of it, poking at the pillow. Palmer and his bride hopped in and out of the van, emerging with a cooler and carrying foil-covered pans of something hot, judging from Palmer's haste. Ziva wandered along side the gurney, holding McGee's good hand, and McGee's besotted beam washed over them all.

_His kids. His kids, battered and broken, but toughing their way back. He owed them ... but what? Would it be better for them if he fought his way back to work, so field agent or not, he could yell and demand and force them back to life? Or would they be better off if he simply retired and let Tony have that job? Would Tony be given that chance even if he left?_

A knock at his front door interrupted his thoughts, and the door swung open to add two new voices.

"Gibbs?"

"Hey, Gibbs! Happy Fourth," Jackie Vance's cheerier voice echoed her husband's. They appeared as she was part-way through her greeting, Jackie carrying a large cake pan. She fearlessly went to the gruff Marine and gave him a hug and a peck on the cheek. "It's not Fourth of July without lemonade cake," she announced, "so we had to stop by."

"Ms. Scuito's invitation was kind, but unnecessary," Vance grinned knowingly. "We're not going to stay, but, in the circumstances, I hope you don't mind our coming over – I want them to know how proud I am of everyone. Of _all_ of you," he added.

"It's mutual, Director." Gibbs took in the still healing scars he could see on the Director's face and hands, and noted how Jackie's usual cheer was a little less easy, a little more emotional, than it had been before their lives had been turned upside down.

"Honey, could we have a minute?" Vance glanced to his wife.

"Everyone's outside, in back. That way," Gibbs offered, nodding toward the deck.

She smiled. "I'll see if I can help." Putting her cake along side the other food spreading across his table, Jackie gave the men a wink and went outside, the sounds of the greetings she received filtering inside as the door closed behind her slowly.

"Haven't seen you for awhile, Gibbs," Vance began. "How're you doing?"

Thinking of the many retorts and come-backs he could offer, about his wounds, his team, about everything else he and they had been through to this point, Gibbs paused a moment, then simply smirked ruefully. "Hell, Leon, I got blown up again and lived to tell about it. What more can a man ask?"

Vance's eyes narrowed a bit, clearly not expecting the response he'd gotten, but quickly decided that for someone as dark as Gibbs, it was an upbeat reply. His lip quirked into a slight smile. "I'm looking at how we're going to rebuild things. You haven't requested retirement yet."

Gibbs actually chuckled.

"...which I'm taking as your interest in coming back. I'd like to talk to you about that in the next week or so."

At the strong show of support from his boss, as undemanding as it was positive, Gibbs felt a sudden appreciation for the man's skills at diplomacy, and wondered if they were why Vance was made Director or something he'd honed on the job. He guessed it was both. "I can do that," he nodded.

"I did want to tell you that we've put a new MCRT in place. We needed to get at least one back working out of the Yard, and since his part of the investigation for the bombing is pretty well wrapped up, I've asked Stan Burley to head the team."

Gibbs nodded immediately. "Good. Stan's a good man."

"He is. I would have considered him anyway, but his work and assistance over the past weeks have been both impressive and invaluable. And for some reason," Vance smirked, "he was anxious to stay in the area, at least for the foreseeable future." The Director watched Gibbs grin again, but added, "Jethro — you know we often have had more than one MCRT on the Yard, and we will again. Stan isn't a replacement for you."

"That's good, because when the time came I'd always hoped it would be DiNozzo."

"Me, too." When Gibbs turned to the Director, his surprise clear on his face, Vance grinned and felt a small flush of victory, that he'd managed to fool the Great Gibbs. "He's good, Gibbs."

"Well, _I_ know that, I just didn't get the impression that _you_ did."

"Gotta keep DiNozzo guessing, don't I? Couldn't have him be complacent." His grin softened slightly. "I'm doing what I can to work with the requirements in place for field agents," he offered. "And if that doesn't work, we might adjust how much field work can be done by someone not ... _officially_ ... a field agent. For the _both_ of you, Jethro."

Gibbs considered that, then nodded. "Rule 5, Leon. I'm glad you're a believer."

**TBC...**

* * *

_**A/N:**__ Gah, this was supposed to be the last chapter! These guys always have more to say than I think they will. At least the end is in sight. One more after this, and SOON – am trying to meet a deadline! _


	5. Chapter 5

_DISCLAIMER: NCIS not mine. See earlier disclaimer._

_A/N: wrapping things up here, in this way, primarily so it could fit a Season X premiere challenge: one requirement was that it be something we could imagine could work in a 42 minute episode. _

_I have so appreciated hearing from so many of you on this! Your interest and support for this story has been such a boost. As always, ALL comments welcome. More A/N following this last chapter, but in short: THANK YOU!  
_

* * *

_**...and the Rockets' Red Glare...**_

As the conversation between Vance and Gibbs wound down, the men could hear the sounds of happy chatter coming from the gathering of their wounded outside, and simultaneously relaxed a bit to hear it. "You're family, Leon. Everyone else here is staying." Gibbs tipped his head toward the group. "I hope you and Jackie will stay as long as you can."

The Director's brief nod of thanks didn't cover up the pleased smile that flickered first, and Gibbs suddenly wondered how much sleep the man had managed since the bomb had gone off. Along with his own injuries, the Director had had a terrorist to catch and an agency to recover and rebuild. At that moment, Gibbs was certain that of his last three Directors, Vance was the only one who had the right combination of skills and experience to pull it off.

"It's about time I pitch in, Leon," Gibbs offered. "I'm going to spend the next few days catching up with my people – _really_ catching up with each of them, to see where they are, what they need. As soon as I get that done, I'd like to do whatever I can to help things get back on track. If you can use me, I'm in."

Vance nodded, another of his brief smiles flickering across his lips. "I'll take you up on that."

The door swung open and a smiling Jimmy Palmer came in with yet another dish of food. "Director Vance," he grinned, warned that the big boss was there by the unexpected appearance of his wife on the deck. "Agent Gibbs. Great party!"

"Jimmy," Vance nodded his way.

Gibbs' own greeting was cut short as he glanced up in surprise at the Director's rare familiarity with the young doctor. Seeing it, Vance said, pride in his voice, "Agent Gibbs, I know you're not particularly good about reading your e-mail, so I'll save you the trouble. In Friday's agency update I'm announcing the names of four employees who have earned a special meritorious service commendation, who went above and beyond the call during the recent crisis. One of them is in the room with us."

The recipient at issue blushed mightily and said nothing, but his grin went even wider, if possible, clearly aware of the award but pleased at the Director's words to Gibbs.

"Mr. Palmer was called away from his own wedding, and faced a disaster scene like few others have faced. He assumed command of a good portion of the recovery and identification efforts, and worked for days at a time with few breaks and little sleep to ensure that everyone was recovered, as far as was possible, and worked with the FBI lab on DNA matching. He also assisted with first aid when it was needed for some of the recovery and clean up crews. It would have been a remarkable effort even for those with far more experience and training, but Jimmy handled it as well as anyone could. He's made us all proud."

Gibbs nodded thoughtfully toward Palmer, then told Vance, "he also kept several of us in the loop, when we were stuck out at Bethesda. Jimmy ..." Gibbs hesitated, looking for the words he needed to express his appreciation. "You know the respect I have for Dr. Mallard. I thought there would never be anyone who could fill his shoes here, when it came time. I was wrong." He saw the younger man's eyes widen and his beam widen in surprise ... and obvious pride. "I know that when Ducky decides to step down, he will do so without any concern that we will suffer for anything other than his company."

Palmer swallowed, blinking a little, words failing him. "I ... Thanks," he blushed.

"Thank _you_," Vance nodded.

"For today, too," Gibbs reminded him. "Abby said you did a lot of work to get Tim set up to come out here today."

"I didn't want him to miss this," Palmer minimized.

"I know," Gibbs smiled a little at his heartfelt response. "And it probably means as much to the team as it does to him that he's here. You know that, right?"

Apparently he didn't; Palmer's expression shifted as he considered the idea and it settled in.

"Why don't you grab some of that food and take it outside, Palmer, some of that snack stuff? Maybe it will get people hungry for the rest of it in here – we got enough for a platoon."

The Gremlin nodded, happy to have a reason to escape further scrutiny, even if it was wrapped up in compliments from the boss – from _both_ Bosses. As Jimmy grabbed a couple bowls from the table and went back outside, Gibbs said, "c'mon, Leon, let's go check the troops."

* * *

When Gibbs finally emerged, he nodded to the others but went directly to the only member of his team he hadn't spoken to yet. As he neared, McGee saw him and lit up as if he was the last person Tim has expected to see there.

"Hey, Gibbs, you came!" McGee beamed at him woozily.

Not expecting to be welcomed to his own place, Gibbs couldn't help but chuckle a little, finding his computer geek nearly as loopy on his meds as DiNozzo could be. "Yeah, McGee, I did. Glad to see you came, too." He glanced over at an attentive Abby, sitting at McGee's side with a glass of soda, straw bent and ready, then looked back to his agent. "You hungry, Tim?"

"Yeah. Yeah, they don't have _food_ at the hospital. Not edible food. That's what Tony says," McGee nodded sagely. "He brings real food when he comes to visit, like doughnuts and pizza. Tony says it's the only way you can stay healthy in a hospital, eating food from the 'outside.' It..." McGee gestured vaguely, as if he was describing a profound scientific principle. "It ... forms a bridge to the outside, so you can get home faster. Tony says that the food is the most important part of getting home."

Gibbs laughed, a rare sound for him. Shaking his head at a high-as-a-kite McGee, he felt himself relax a little, his faith in his agent's recovery oddly buoyed by the weird conversation. "Well, Tony's usually right about food." He looked his youngest over, again relieved to know he would survive his injuries, and asked, softly, "hey, you doin' okay here, Tim? You need anything to make you more comfortable?"

McGee opened his mouth as if to speak, paused, blinked, then shut it. Smiling the smile of one who'd had a sudden insight, he said, "no, Boss. I'm good."

Gibbs knew it was the medication talking more than anything, but at least the combination of palliatives they'd given his agent would allow him to enjoy the day, before he went back to the hard, painful work he had ahead in recovery. He reached over to pat Tim's left knee, and said, "you need anything, you tell Abby or someone, alright? The Director's here, so we've got the juice to get you whatever you want."

Tim actually giggled at the thought, but when Gibbs saw Abby's eyes go wide with the possibilities, he gave her a cautionary look and she smirked a silent acquiescence. Eyes not leaving Abby's right away, but relenting into a near-smile, he finally looked back to McGee and said, "I'll be over to see you again in a bit, Tim. I'm glad you're here. Get something to eat."

As he turned from McGee, Gibbs saw Tony leaning standing by, watching their interaction. "Wanna help me put out the rest of dinner, DiNozzo?" Assuming he'd been there through at least part of the conversation, Gibbs added, "since according to McGee here you're some kind of food expert."

DiNozzo grinned, without further comment than a soft laugh. "On it, Boss."

Since they'd spoken earlier, Gibbs had observed Tony as closely as he could, and still was at a loss to know what made his SFA think he couldn't go back in the field. He led the way back inside and muttered, "I don't know what Abby wants done with all this stuff, other than just puttin' it out here, but it doesn't look like she'll leave McGee long enough to come in and take charge."

DiNozzo shrugged philosophically. "Well, she did manage to get everything arranged, and get everyone here – and even got you to host the thing. We can give her a pass on this. Besides, no one expects you to be Emily Post, Boss." He glanced up Gibbs' way first with a grin, then immediately frowned. "Uh – Emily Post? You know, the etti..."

"I _know_ who Emily Post is, DiNozzo," Gibbs growled, "that ... that social-party-woman..."

"Right. Her." His grin was reminiscent of the ones Gibbs used to see in the squadroom. "Anyway, we could probably just put the stuff..."

"DiNozzo, what's going on with you that you don't think you'll be cleared for field work?"

Tony froze only a moment at the sudden demand, to his credit barely losing the grin he'd worn only a moment before. Self-conscious, suddenly, he laughed nervously, "wow, nice interrogation technique, Boss."

"Tony – " Gibbs' voice was now a bit softer and much more concerned. "Talk to me."

To which DiNozzo chuckled again, ready to deflect now. "That too. Like you're playing 'good cop, bad cop' all by yourself..."

Gibbs snorted in frustration, but was quiet for a moment, thinking it through. Finally, he said, "I let you down more times than I should have, Tony, probably more times than I even know about. This time, I should have been there for you right away, but I wasn't, because I thought..." He paused, realizing he was the one with too much yaba yaba these days, then said simply, "starting right now – I got your six. Any way I can, whatever the problem is."

He stared at Tony throughout, who was uncharacteristically quiet; another bad sign, along with the weariness he'd seen earlier. Gibbs figured he owed him at least some patience, because something was definitely up – or off – with his agent. He drew a deep breath to try again.

"So what can't you pass? The physical? You look fine to me." He paused, getting nothing. "Your lungs?" Tony shook his head, and Gibbs pressed, "you can still shoot, right?"

Gibbs hadn't expected the sudden snort. "Well, Boss, you did it again. Found my problem." His SFA laughed softly, humorless irony in the sound, adding, "I tried a couple times but couldn't qualify."

Gibbs frowned. "We can work on that," he said quickly; at least _that_ was something he knew how to fix. But it wasn't what he'd expected: the entire time he'd known DiNozzo he qualified easily, with either hand. He hadn't had any hand or arm injuries Gibbs knew about. Something physical? Was it nerves, the noise? Not likely...

DiNozzo's infernal reticence with this was frustrating, but if he were embarrassed or worried about qualifying, that might explain it – and that in turn could make it even harder for him to settle down and pass. Gibbs worked to keep his voice calm as he asked,"what was the problem, Tony?"

DiNozzo paused, pursed his lips, clearly finding words difficult, then shrugged, apparently deciding to come clean. His words were the last thing Gibbs expected from him.

"Can't see the target, Boss."

Gibbs eyes narrowed, not getting it. "Ducky said I knew about all your injuries. Nobody said anything about your eyes being affected–"

"They weren't. Not technically. Brain damage, Boss." He laughed, "I know, right? Me, brain damage. I can hear it now; everyone will say, 'it was never a problem for you before.'" He chewed at his lip for a moment, uncomfortable with the discussion and the silence from his mentor, then with a sigh, explained, "the, uh ... the bleed they went in to repair, it wouldn't have been a problem if they had gotten to it right away. But with the time it took getting us out, some of the pressure was there for too long for the damage to reverse itself. _Yet,_" he added, trying to sound hopeful. "Apparently it's still early enough that it might get better. And I might be able to ... work around it ... a bit better, with practice."

_So not only Ziva, but Tony, paid a price for their long delay in the rubble? _"Work around it?" Gibbs managed, hoping his voice didn't betray him.

"Yeah, it's..." Tony paused, again trying to find words that would explain things as they were, but allow him to continue his denial of their meaning ... and their finality. "Two things – there are blind spots – there's this visual field test they do, and they found that some of my peripheral vision is gone. But it's better than it was; I got some places back that I couldn't see right afterward." He paused. "Then the other thing, the rest vision itself ..." He hesitated again, then shrugged. "It's kinda ... fuzzy."

"Fuzzy."

"Yeah."

"_How_ fuzzy?"

DiNozzo drew a breath and huffed it out. "Like, staring out at where a target would be, and..." He shrugged.

"It's 'fuzzy?'"

"It's not there."

The whispered admission was more chilling than anything Gibbs had ever heard from Tony, and in that moment he understood why Ducky did not think Tony would bounce back into the field this time. He drew a deep breath, looking at his second in concern, and said, awkwardly, "I'm guessing that if it was something that glasses or surgery would fix, we wouldn't be having this conversation."

Tony's small laugh was strained, painful. "Yeah, see? Always the crack investigator, Boss. On the money." But as quickly as his admission came, DiNozzo closed up again, turning to cross back toward the door, not revealing for one moment that his vision was the least bit different than it had been.

"You're getting around okay."

DiNozzo shrugged. "Oh – yeah. That's the 'fuzzy' part. Everything's sorta out of focus, but for bigger things, or when things are closer, I can make 'em out enough so I'm not tripping over stuff or running into walls too often." He snorted softly. "Could be worse, huh?"

Gibbs was quiet for several moments before he spoke again, wondering how the hell he could have missed this for so long – or why no one had told him. "Who else knows, Tony?"

"You mean, other than you?" he smirked. Taking Gibbs' silence as a cue, he shrugged, still facing the yard beyond the door where his teammates relaxed and caught up with each other. "Ducky."

"But not Vance?"

Tony was quiet for several moments. "Not the particulars. And Stan knows something's up, but not exactly what." He laughed awkwardly again, joking weakly, "another regular super-investigator, just like you, Boss."

"But not the team."

Tony sobered a bit, then shrugged, "Well, they've all got stuff going on. Bigger stuff than my ... qualifying."

"DiNozzo," Gibbs sighed, sad to know that Tony had been alone with this for six weeks now. "You can come to me, even if we're off the clock."

"Like you don't have stuff, too, Boss."

Gibbs sat back for the moment, considering his response. So many things had changed; so many things were the same but ...different. _Hell, now he was starting to sound like DiNozzo, too._ "I'm just saying you don't have to do any of this alone. Believe me, I know what it's like to be their leader, and not want to let your own problems show..."

Tony turned abruptly, concern on his face. "But I'm _not_ their leader, Boss; you're the boss ... Boss." He came back over to sit across from Gibbs. "Like I said before – I'm just trying to keep things together, while everyone recovers. I'm not trying to be team leader."

"But you _have_ been their leader, while I've holed up here at home. You stepped up." Gibbs paused for a moment, another thought dawning on him, and he added, "maybe that's why it's been so damn easy for me to just ... check out, when I have. I know you'll be there for them. I forget to stop and think what it might do to you when you get left without warning like that."

DiNozzo, for a change, was at a loss for words.

"I owe you more than that. I owe _everyone_ more than that." Gibbs shook his head. "You come to me, Tony, when you have 'stuff,' you hear me? If we can't figure it out, we'll find someone who will."

"Or who'll destroy the evidence?"

He should have known that DiNozzo wouldn't let things be serious for long, and his second's comeback, out of left field, let him chuckle. "Well, yeah, DiNozzo, isn't that why we're in the job?"

Tony grinned, hoping he hid his relief at having lightened the mood, at least for the moment – and at finally letting Gibbs know what was going on with him. "Well, that and the food. Don't we need to get stuff outside?"

"Nah, let's leave it inside here, eat wherever people want. Chicken and ribs're in the oven, warming up. You can get them out."

"I love ya, Boss." Tony went into the kitchen and pulled open the oven door, humming happily at the aroma when he did. "Got a towel or something I can use to get these out?"

"The one on the oven door handle, if it's dry."

"What if it's not?"

"It's not?" Gibbs looked across the various dishes on his table and pulled off the covers to those not yet opened.

"It is."

"DiNozzo!"

"Emily Post, Boss." Tony beamed at once again hearing the familiar exasperation he'd missed the last several weeks. Reaching in to grab the platter – with the dry towel at hand – he pulled out the meat Gibbs had smoked earlier and set it on the stovetop. As Gibbs watched, Tony delicately pulled up the foil cover and peered at the meat in front of him a little longer than he might have before, but ultimately, just as Gibbs would expect, picked off a piece of the tender pork and popped it in his mouth. "Oh, man," he moaned. "You do good work, Gibbs."

* * *

Their dinner outside was almost normal, in circumstances that were anything but: a group of co-workers, closer than many families, sharing a meal with those they'd never shared a meal before, in a home some had never visited and that, for nearly two decades, had rarely welcomed more than one or two visitors at a time; a group of people who had come through one of the most horrific events anyone could imagine, left with scars, both visible and invisible, that would mark them for the rest of their lives, for the moment laughing and teasing one another in a welcome return to the past.

Restless in his efforts to be sure everyone was enjoying the day, Tony took advantage of the watermelon Jimmy and Breena brought to stir up an old fashioned, traditional 4th of July watermelon seed spitting contest, declaring it to be a celebration of Ziva's second anniversary as an American citizen; no one even questioned the fortuitousness of her being declared the winner. Ducky caught up with Stan over cricket esoterica, Tony throwing in some references surprising them both, as plates were piled with food for seconds and thirds and Ducky more than once scolded Anthony for keeping his knowledge of cricket a secret. Abby didn't stray too far from her 'Timmy,' but didn't have to, as everyone came over frequently to chat and sit with their sorely-missed agent, to catch up and plan more visits for when he was feeling up to it.

As dinner was winding down, with promises of dessert to soon follow, Jimmy and Breena came over to speak with Tim. As he had twice before, unnoticed by the others, Jimmy unobtrusively pressed his fingers against Tim's wrist and glanced at his watch, satisfying himself that the visit wasn't causing too much stress for his charge. As he lifted his fingers, satisfied, Tim blinked his way and said, "thanks, Jimmy."

"You're welcome," smiled the Gremlin. "What for?"

Tim smiled slowly. "All this. The doctors didn't want me to come until you showed them. I mean..." he laughed a little at his words, then said, "you told them. _And_ showed them. What you could do." He paused, and his brow furrowed. "I mean..."

Palmer could see that, more and more, Tim's wooziness was giving way to exhaustion. He'd fall sound asleep within the hour. "I know what you mean, McGee. You're welcome," Jimmy repeated. Tim had been aware of the effort Palmer took to plan out the trip for their patient's well being, and had already offered his more lucid thanks. "It wouldn't have been the same if you hadn't been here," he added sincerely.

"I_ know_," McGee grinned, "'cos I'm taking some of this food back with me. _To tie myself to the outside,_" he added conspiratorially, with a wink.

When Palmer blinked at him in confusion, Abby just shook her head and waved it off with an 'I'll tell you later' gesture, and Jimmy nodded, going with it. "Okay, Tim – you want to tell me specifically what you'd like to take, and I'll pack some up for you."

As the men spoke, Jimmy snickering occasionally at McGee's apparent medication-induced fixation with the escape related properties of food, Breena turned to Abby to say softly, "Jimmy asked me to tell you that we'll need to leave in about thirty minutes to take Tim back, in case you had anything else planned."

Abby frowned her disappointment but nodded, remembering why they had to take him back so soon. "Just dessert," she shrugged.

"Want some help?"

Abby stared at Breena for a moment, then grabbed Breena's hands suddenly. "I'm so happy you and Jimmy found each other," she blurted. "I'm sorry I wasn't there to be his best man..."

"But you were there, in spirit," Breena insisted, not dropping a beat. Suddenly she smiled even wider, the beauty-queen beam taking on a little of the silliness she'd heard in the group earlier. "You're still our very _best_ man, Abby."

Abby grinned her delight, the exhaustion she'd felt from her hours of planning and fears that the evening might not be perfect suddenly evaporating. "Let's go get dessert."

* * *

Ducky came around to sit beside Gibbs, a bottle of his host's bourbon in hand, and two of the mason jars from his basement dangling from his fingers. With a wry smile, the Scotsman sat beside the team leader and began pouring. "You know, Jethro, of all the times we have shared a drink in your home – I don't know that we have ever done so _above_ ground."

"Ya coulda got some real glasses from the kitchen, Duck," Gibbs smirked, taking the familiar jar from his friend.

"Why start now?" The doctor capped the bottle and took a sip of his own drink, considering the man who sat apart for the moment, considering his people. "Thoughts, Jethro?" Gibbs let his eyes scan the group again, and just shook his head once, vaguely. Seeing it, Ducky urged, "look at them, Jethro! They survived! They all are coping and beating the odds, just as they would for you on a case – just as you've trained them to do."

Gibbs broke his gaze from the younger ones to look at the doctor. "And like _you_ did." He took another draw from his bourbon, then asked, "Vance tell you about the service award he's giving Palmer?"

"Just earlier this evening, yes," Ducky nodded. "I tell you, Jethro, I would have rested far less easily, knowing I couldn't be here for those we lost, had Jimmy not been here with them. I was delighted to hear that the Director is recognizing his contribution." He sipped his bourbon and smiled, "I am so very proud of that young man."

"You tell him that, Duck?"

Ducky laughed in an indignant snort. "Of course! Not all of us are 'functional mutes,' as I believe I have heard you called." At his friend's grunt, he added, "those people of yours, out there – they could all do with hearing you tell them something similar, Jethro. To get here, as far as they have come – each of them has gone above and beyond."

"I know," Gibbs said quietly. "Workin' on it."

"Attention, everyone!" Breena had come outside again and, eyes on her, she announced, "here's the big finish – happy Fourth of July!"

She clapped and stepped around behind Abby as she came outside, her expression hopeful and, as it was before their world had been upended, childlike in its hope, bearing a large, fluffy white cake, decorated with red and blue candies – and alight with a dozen sparklers.

As the group applauded, and Bree took the cake to lift it high amid the compliments it brought, Gibbs saw Abby look over to McGee to see his reaction. She'd debated until the very last minute about the sparklers and their fiery appearance; Gibbs had reminded her that the distant sounds of occasional fireworks hadn't bothered anyone. Knowing she was more worried about McGee than the others, he had whispered to her that as medicated as McGee was, he'd probably not notice much, and since the sparklers were coming in on _food_, they might just fit in with the rest of his day.

And now, Gibbs watched as Bree approached McGee with the cake, Abby reaching to slow her, nodding toward the sparklers. He felt himself relax along with Abby as Tim curiously leaned forward, studied the cake for a moment, then carefully reached to the sparkling cake and drew his finger along the icing at the bottom. They all grinned nearly as comically as Tim did when he stuck his finger in his mouth and sleepily declared, "see? This is _not_ hospital cake."

"Is he even going to remember today, Ducky?" Gibbs sighed.

"Some, probably," the doctor replied. "But at the very least, he'll remember that his 'family' is here for him, and wants to have him back among them as soon as possible."

Accepting that for now, Gibbs let his eyes slide over to his other agents as the silent Ziva carefully lifted a still-burning sparkler out of the cake, handed it to Tony, then raised on tiptoe to gently kiss his cheek. Turning, she pulled two more sparklers from the cake and approached the two older men as they sat apart with their bourbon watching the others. Standing before them both, a sparkler in each hand she hesitated, smiled softly ... and handed one to her boss.

"Gibbs..." she said softly, her voice reedy from disuse. Stepping closer to kiss his cheek, too, she dropped her gaze to then turn and repeat her actions – and greeting – with Ducky. Stepping back then to regard them both, she drew a deep breath, seemed to give it some thought, then smiled back to both of them.

"Cake?"

Gibbs grinned to see her working her way back, even with these small steps. "Make it a double. Duck?"

"Thank you, Ziva, I would love a piece." As she nodded and walked away, Gibbs looked again across the group, passing out plates of cake. "So much destruction, for all of them," Gibbs murmured. "Not even we could get five miracles, Ducky," Gibbs sighed.

"Jethro, you have _gotten _your miracles!" Ducky insisted. "All of them are alive! With the blast that resulted from that bomb, with each of you so close... we could have lost any of you. But we _didn't. That's_ the miracle."

"But there's a good chance that _all_ of them will be sidelined permanently. I'd hoped that at least DiNozzo ..." he sighed. "Or even Tim ... or Ziva..."

"Jethro, you have to be realistic. What happened that day – you and Abigail so near the bomb itself, with the fire and her lab's chemicals mixed in, Tony and Ziva unreachable, for so many hours... and of course, Timothy..." Ducky shifted to look Gibbs in the eye, sharply. "Only in one of Tony's movies – or some blasted television show – would so many people go through all of that, and all of them just bounce right back to the way things were in a matter of weeks," he lectured. "But that said," he relented, "the Director meant what he said, Jethro; I believe he is very eager to have everyone back, and if not in the field, well then, he is willing to look at other options. _Serious_ options," he urged, seeing the skepticism. "Go see him. Sound him out about his ideas – for all of you," Ducky suggested. "This is the time for rebuilding and reinventing NCIS, at least for those of us based in headquarters. It can be an exciting time and the best time for thinking outside the box for every single one of us."

"Us, Ducky?" Gibbs finally smiled. "So you're not going through with that retirement now, after all?"

"What, and miss all the fun?" the doctor retorted. "It's going to be an interesting year ahead, Jethro. I wouldn't miss it for the world."

* * *

_A/N: And there you have it - the team is down but not out, banged up but not irretrievably broken. Any of the details not yet explained I leave to you to fill in - if it's making you completely crazy not to have more specifics, PM me, and I can tell you what was in my head as I wrote this, but I would encourage you to decide for yourself where each of them is now, and how things will end up, as you imagine each character would be.  
_

_For all of you who reviewed, PM'd, or hit those other buttons, please know that your input was incredibly helpful and a pleasure to receive! Thanks again to everyone out there - and happy Season X!  
_


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